Control.

The most practiced among activities in the life of a Marine. John Winchester was the master, the god, everything, when it came to the stilling of emotions, the fluidity of thoughts, the grace of decisions, and the sharpness of movements.

The Marines had taught him well. Hell, better than well. He was controlled in all of his senses, even underneath gunfire and blood. John prided himself on his ability to direct himself in such manners.

But his younger son, Sam… He tested his control.

Sam was so much like him. Curious, independent, assertive, and smart, he could outthink his way out of any situation, be that research or a hunt, and could weld the handle of a hunting knife better than any other teenager or man could (and yes, that included Dean). But the constant questioning, the constant need for correction, the constant toomucheverything had been grating on his nerves.

His control slipped.

Sam had only objected to running five miles. Five measly miles, claiming he had his Latin and math to finish. Five miles could wait. John couldn't.

He had had it up to… wherever dads could hold, and snapped. His fist was fast and surprising, cracking against the sharp cheekbones of his youngest. Another followed, then another, before John caught his breathe, his fists stilled and tight, and stared with wide eyes.

Sam's eyes were wide, unbelieving, as he looked at the man he had trusted from the first breathe of life he had taken. The man standing in the corner of the kitchen, the man who protected them had… he had… Well, not anymore, whatever he had done. Sam knew he toed the line, but never did he think that it would end in his Dad's fists attacking his young flesh. John stumbled for words, but all his brain could supply him with was, "I said five miles, Sam," and Sam shot off, not even changing into a sweatshirt and fucking shoes, as he ran into the frigid, torrential rain.

"Sam," he called, racing after his youth, his blood, regretting the violence immediately and was shocked at his chocked throat. The words hadn't managed to travel to ears as the door had slammed shut two seconds later. Sam was gone.

His fists weren't.

The shock had settled in and John shook the cold and shaking feeling off, practically vibrating with relief that Dean was gone for a few days with Caleb. The bruises would fade with the feelings and everything would be ok.

It would.

But it never did.

John lost himself amongst the words and yelling and his fists would fly, copying the monster of the night behind him and in the early mornings he would hear Sam reassuring his eldest son that "the monster threw a little harder than they had thought" or the "choke out had been tougher than he had first admitted".

John found no fault. Dean found no problems. Sam found no one. His father beat him, his brother and best friend was ignoring him for chicks and money and Caleb now that he was old enough, and he hurt. Muscles rippled with folic acid, bruises bled purple and yellow more often than gone, and dimples rarely made an appearance, if any.

John noticed. He saw the changes in his youngest and for some reason, his heart never moved, never jerked at the onslaught of images of his boy. Sam needed to be put in line and this was his last resort. And it was working.

Dean never found the lines between the lies, never saw the truth, never heard the sin that was dealt upon his brother's flesh. He figured his brother was just being his emo self when he was quiet and withdrawn, which was always, and would shake out of it when he was ready to. Hunting was never easy and it was his way of dealing, the silence that wrapped around him must've been the comfort he blanketed himself in.

It was two years later that Dean saw what was truly happening in his family. It was Sam's birthday when the elder of the two walked in on his father striking the brother he considered his kid. It wasn't sparking, it wasn't wild, but it was controlled and levied and weighed, every strike calculated. John had known what he was doing before his fist flew towards Sam's body.

"You fucking idiot. You idiot! You're going to get us killed. You're going to get Dean killed. You're nothing more than a selfish bastard, Sam. Your mother died for this? For you? She could be alive, you selfish bastard," his father grunted, punctuating each with his fist. Dean was frozen, caught between I don't believe this and I'm going to kill my dad. Eventually though, he made an angry noise and moved forward, John jerking in ultimate surprise at the sight of his eldest and Sam stared with big, and future, black eyes.

Dean had seen them. Dean was going to hate him. His big brother would throw him out, see the trash that he really was, and he had nowhere else to go. Bobby had dismissed the Winchester name years ago and Pastor Jim was somewhere deep. He had dismissed the full ride from Stanford he worked so hard for. Nowhere and no one would, could, help him.

Dean launched forward and dragged his father away from his… his fucking life, rage coloring his world red and bright and narrowed. His anger decorated bruises along his father, his blood rushing in his ears and veins and various words synchronized with the noises of rough flesh on flesh.

"You don't fucking touch him," he heard himself growl, "You don't fucking do that."

Eventually a large and shaking hand enclosed around his weary shoulder, grounding him and pulling him away from the red he was surrounded by. The hand was gentle and slow and he heard his brother whisper, "It's ok, Dean. Come on."

Dean took a last glance at the man he called father and saw some blood, some bruising, and he just shook his head. The man was out. "Why didn't you fight him, Sam," he breathed, scared and pissed and too many emotions flooding him. "Why didn't you fight him?"

"Just made it worse," the admission was quiet, but it rocked Dean's world. This…wasn't the first time.

Dean just nodded and finally turned to look at his broken baby brother, green and hazel meeting. Both were glassy and filled with a sadness that only great authors could write of, both in desperate need of each other and the healing salve of brotherly love. The hand on Dean's shoulder drifted off and Dean scrambled for it, needing some touch to keep him there.

He found Sam's bruised wrist, the outlines of father fingers finally blooming, and breathed out harsh and loud. Take care of Sam. That is what he was best at and the reason he was born, no one could tell him differently. Nothing mattered before Sam and he had... he had failed at that. He had lacked the ability to protect his brother from his own father.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, trying to recapture eyes that had turned from him. They were big and swollen and red, but they were beautiful and his to look at, his to read. "I… I didn't… know," he swallowed the bitterness and continued on. "Let's… let's get you patched up, ya? Then we'll pack up and head out."

Sam just nodded, relief just flowing through his veins and sending him high. His brother stilled loved him, still saw him, and tears overflowed before he even knew they were coming. Arms immediately wrapped around him and he cried into the warmth and protection of being in his big brothers embrace. He wasn't alone anymore.

Dean silently laid the bandages on his brother's skin, decorating the blue and purples with stark white, hiding them behind their own deceived lies. They were stark against the kids skin, but Dean hardly paid attention, whispering words of encouragement, of love, of "I'm sorry, forgive me" as he gripped his brother tight, lungs not working properly as they powered breathe to breathe. After the bandages were taped, ice packed, ointment placed, they moved out, Dean taking the Impala and leaving the old life of abuse behind.

"Where to, Sammy," Dean asked hours later. His brother was quiet and was staring out the Impala's window, tracing the blurring scenery of Colorado. Sam shrugged, wincing at the movement of his shoulders, but paused.

Dean never would forget the moment. He would never not be able to recall the amount of love, of appreciation, of thank you, Sam had directed at him, as he answered the grand question. It wasn't easy, Dean knew, and his eyes filled with their own moisture.

"I'll go anywhere with you, Dean," he locked eyes momentarily, before he caught the quick passing of Pikes Peak in Colorado, accepting the grand wonders of mountains as his courage to keep speaking. "Wherever you are, I'll be."

These words, spoken so simply, so powerfully, filled Dean and he pressed on the accelerator. He was headed home. Home to Sammy, and really? That's all that really mattered. Because protecting Sammy? Carrying him, loving him? That was Dean's destiny and he couldn't afford to fail that. So, his baby carried his baby brother, and himself, flying by the scenery, feeding them the flashing images of America, and Dean found no other place to be. Neither did Sam.

All they had was each other. And that was fine by them.

I can control my destiny, but not my fate. Destiny means there are opportunities to turn right or left, but fate is a one-way street. I believe we all have the choice as to whether we fulfil our destiny, but our fate is sealed. -Paulo Cohelo
Thoughts? xoxo K.